Overnight in Edinburgh
by WhyAye
Summary: In which not much happens but our four heroes-Lewis, Hathaway, Rebus, and Clarke-get to interact once again, this time, on DI Rebus's patch. Rated for coarse language and implied adult content.
1. Chapter 1

The most recent murder in the old city of Oxford had not been complicated. There were no riddles or cryptic crosswords to solve, no Latin or Greek to translate, no Shakespearean analogies to make. For once, the characters in this cast were not titled, rich, erudite, intellectual, politically favored, arrogant, or privileged. Rather, they included two ordinary and somewhat coarse men drinking together in a working-class pub and starting an argument with a third man, who had ended up getting his skull split open by an ordinary, heavy, dimpled pint glass, which was shattered even more than the man's skull. By the time the local constabulary arrived, the man (later identified as one Bertie Hanson) was dead and his assailants—who could not be named by any of the other people still present—had ducked out the back door of the pub.

So there wasn't much puzzling required on the part of the Oxfordshire CID crew assigned to the case. All they had to do was identify and locate the two drinking companions. And that's exactly where they were stuck now, and had been stuck for over a week. Witnesses said they couldn't remember details (_wouldn't_ remember was more like it), and the forensics results had only just arrived, backlogged by an underfunded and overextended police lab. Rather grainy CCTV at the pub door had captured only one of the men's faces, and neither the witnesses nor the detectives could attach a name to it.

_A week's time lost! _Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis quickly scanned the forensics report he'd been handed by his sergeant, James Hathaway. His blue eyes paused near the bottom of one page, then shot up to meet Hathaway's.

"Sterling McManus was there." He slapped his open palm with the report for emphasis. "_McManus_ was there. His prints were on that lethal pint jar. He's the drinking companion."

"Not the killer?"

Lewis shook his head. "McManus is a redhead. The witnesses were consistent that the killer had dark hair and his mate was ginger."

"But no one else's prints are on the glass?"

"If McManus had been drinking out of it and the other man grabbed it, it could have been wet or something, or maybe we didn't get the right pieces. I know eyewitness testimony can be dodgy, but not when every person who saw it said the same man was the killer."

Hathaway cocked his head. "You know this McManus?"

The older man's eyes paused in their darting back and forth, something they tended to do when his brain was revving at full throttle, as though he was watching imaginary pieces of their latest murder case fitting together.

"Oh, aye, Sergeant. Sterling McManus served as right-hand man to several big-time criminals all over the U.K. He always seemed to escape prosecution; his timing was impeccable."

The sergeant pondered this. "You're using past tense. So we're talking ancient history now, am I right?" Hathaway managed to show enough condescension to ensure that it could be spotted, but not enough to be called insubordination.

Lewis scowled. "A criminal is never history unless he's dead. Until then, he's always at least a potential player." He made a decision. "Find out where McManus is now, or if you can't find that, then where he's been most recently. I seem to recall him being convicted of something petty a bit back. If he's fresh from the nick, we might have some leverage to compel his testimony, especially if he's on license. Or maybe we can get him as an accessory."

When Hathaway blinked in response to this order, Lewis turned stern. "Go on then, off y'go."

It didn't take Hathaway long to find the man. The computer provided the answer almost immediately. The witness they so dearly needed was in the custody of the Lothian & Borders Police in Scotland.

"So I rang there," he was telling his superior officer, "and guess who nicked him?"

Lewis studied Hathaway's expression before giving what he was certain was the answer.

"DI John Rebus."

"Got it in one, Sir."

"And did you happen to speak with the good inspector?" A slight smile played on his lips.

"He was out 'conducting inquiries,' accompanied by DS Siobhan Clarke, according to the duty sergeant." Hathaway smirked.

Lewis's smile broadened. He and Hathaway had worked with the team of Edinburgh detectives some time back when Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent had brought them in on secondment to help on a multiple-murder investigation. Although the inspectors began their acquaintance as hostile adversaries, Rebus had in the end risked his own life to save Lewis from a rampaging gunman, and the men had understood then that, regardless of personality differences, they both valued loyalty and were fiercely dedicated to finding the truth behind the crimes they solved. Mutual, if improbable, respect resulted from the association.

Lewis pulled out his phone. "Maybe I can get his mobile." He knew that John Rebus shared a certain trait with his own former boss, Chief Inspector Morse. "Conducting inquiries" was more likely to be synonymous with "thinking and drinking" than with questioning potential witnesses. And, indeed, when his call was answered, Rebus was with DS Siobhan Clarke, sipping a pint of heavy in the Oxford Bar in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle.

"Robbie!" Lewis could hear the full grin behind that one word, with its richly rolled capital R. "What can I do for ye?"

Lewis struggled not to chuckle at the thick Scots accent. He could almost smell the beer.

"I understand you've got a bloke in custody that I'd very much like to have a chat with." Lewis paused for dramatic effect. "Sterling McManus."

There was a snort and a pause. Then, at last, "What is it you Sassenachs want with Mister McManus? We have plenty of charges to keep him up here, ye ken. I dinna think we'll be letting him go south for anything soon."

So it was to be a turf battle, Lewis supposed. He chewed on this a bit. Seemed like everything was a battle where Rebus was concerned. "What have you got him for?"

"Real crime this time." Rebus sounded grimly satisfied. "GBH, armed robbery, and some lessers. He's trying to deal but I doubt the Procurator Fiscal will give him anything."

"What kind of deal is he looking for?"

"Och, it's all between the lawyers, I don't get told anything, y'know? Not up to me. Anyway, our evidence is watertight and he's done some shite in the past we never nailed him for. This time, we've got video of the whole thing. He's nicked for good. What's he looking at wi' your lot?"

"Nothing concrete, yet. He was at least a witness and at most an accessory to a murder."

There was silence as Rebus weighed the charges. Murder, of course, was big. But the English case sounded weak and might result in a fairly short sentence, depending on the proofs the jury found and the temperament of the sentencing judge.

Lewis imagined the Scot must be shaking his head. And he was right.

"I cannae let him out, Robbie. He's about to be charged formally." He paused, thinking. "You can writ him out and ship him south under guard, I suppose, but you'd spend far less of the taxpayer's graft by coming up here yerself."

There was a significant pause. Lewis held his breath.

"I could show ye around the city, y' know. The castle, the pubs, the saunas . . ."

A grin broke across Robbie's face and Hathaway cocked his head, curious about its cause.

"I'll be bringing me sergeant. And we'll need a place to stay for a night or two. Nothing expensive."

James's eyes widened. They were going to Edinburgh! Well, _probably_. Or _maybe_. They'd need permission. But James had never been there, and he hoped the trip would happen.

The phone conversation had stalled. Rebus inhaled, thinking. Due to a problem with the hotel, he'd stayed at Lewis's flat when he and Siobhan had traveled to Oxford. The friction then between the two inspectors had resulted more from the situation than a personality conflict, and although they were in many ways dissimilar, Rebus couldn't see any reason he wouldn't be able to tolerate the Oxford team as houseguests for one or two nights.

"You could stay wi' me and claim the cost of a cheap hotel," he provided, eventually.

Lewis snorted. "I'm not as good as you at deceiving my superiors. Or anyone else, for that matter. The more I can keep the cost of the trip to a minimum, the more I'm likely to get permission to take it. You have room for both me and James?"

"Och, aye, the flat's far too big for me alone. Dunno why I keep it."

"Perfect."

* * *

><p>And so Robbie Lewis and James Hathaway were on a train headed north the following morning, having received approval from their Chief Super to travel to Edinburgh for the purpose of interviewing Sterling McManus. As they neared the Scottish capitol, Lewis checked over his notes.<p>

"So they're supposed to send a car to meet us at Waverley and take us . . . where? The station at St. Leonard's?"

"Fettes HQ," James replied. "Whoever picks us up will take our bags to Inspector Rebus's flat so they'll be there when we're done for the day."

Lewis frowned, puzzled. "Fettes? I thought John was at St. Leonard's," he posited to his sergeant.

"I heard they've had some restructuring. Siobhan emailed me that they'd all been reassigned to several different stations. Fettes is what the final instructions said."

Lewis shot a look at him. "You've kept in touch with DS Clarke?"

Hathaway nodded, guileless.

Lewis gave him a long look, but there was nothing significant here, nothing kept back, as far as he could tell. And then a thought struck him.

"Did she and John get split up?"

James's expression hardened. "Yeah. He ended up with really no one beneath him. She was pegged for promotion. Hasn't come through yet, though."

The inspector blinked. And blinked again. "No one beneath him . . .? How's he supposed to work like that?" He spoke softly, as if to himself. "Why wouldn't they let her finish with him? He can't have much more time."

Hathaway's eyes were hard. "You know the answer to that, Sir. They want to drive him out, ASAP. No lost love between Rebus and the higher-ups. . . . Don't they have an odd nickname for them up there?"

"The 'High Hiedyins.'" Lewis exhaled, grimly. Indeed, he could see Hathaway was right. The High Hiedyins had _never_ cared for Rebus, and would not now ease his passage to retirement. Lewis thought a while longer before speaking further. "So is Siobhan in on Sterling McManus?"

Hathaway checked his notes. "Yes. Rebus is the arresting officer but it looks like DS Clarke is the officer in charge of the investigation. She's at Fettes, so that's why we're going there." He did not need to add to this observation that putting a sergeant in charge, when an inspector was already involved in the case, was a substantial insult to the inspector. Nor could he hide the slight tone of envy in his voice at her being put in charge.

Lewis blew air through his lips. "Bloody hell, John must have really ruffled some feathers."

Hathaway exhaled slowly. "Sorry if I'm stating the obvious, but isn't ruffling feathers what DI Rebus excels at?"

Lewis snorted his agreement. They rode the rest of the way in near silence. Lewis resisted prying into the nature of Hathaway's relationship with Siobhan, and whether that had advanced since she had been in Oxford. By the time they reached Edinburgh more than six hours after leaving Oxford, they'd each developed multiple theories and scenarios for what the life of DI Rebus must be like at this point. Not a single one was anything either man would wish for himself.

As the train slid into the old city, Hathaway found himself staring out the window with excitement. This was a city of culture, of great beauty, "The Athens of the North." And indeed the structures that rose to create a part of the skyline had classic proportions. _Part_ of the skyline only, because _most_ of the skyline was formed by the natural geological features of the city: Castle Rock, Calton Hill, Arthur's Seat. The city managed to look both elegant and untamable at the same time. Hathaway inhaled, shaking his head slightly in awe.

Lewis, who had been to Edinburgh before, smiled to himself. He, too, found the city extraordinarily beautiful, but he'd seen its ugly side and knew about the brutality that lurked in the city's past. Murderers, body snatchers, and thieves had played significant roles during the city's real and fictitious history, men like Deacon Brodie, Burke and Hare, Jekyll and Hyde. The city was more than its cultured veneer. Much more.

They were met at Waverley Station by a PC with a car, and were brought to the headquarters at Fettes. The PC gave them directions to find the CID offices on the first floor, then he drove off to take the bags to Rebus's flat.

Lewis, his eyebrows raised, checked to see if Hathaway had any more ideas than he regarding where they should go. The station was huge. The desk sergeant, who had been watching them silently, at last spoke up. "Can I help you gentlemen find something?"

Hathaway blinked, not comprehending a single word of the thickly accented speech.

Lewis turned to him gratefully. "Oh, aye. We're gannin' to CID. I ken the PC said first floor, but where . . . ?" The inspector had reverted to a heavy Geordie accent, not the same as the desk sergeant's, but similar enough so the man could recognize that they were speaking the same language.

"Right you are, then, that way doon the corridor and to the left. The stairs are through the doors. I'll buzz so they'll know you're on your way, Mister . . .?"

"Inspector Lewis. Ta." Lewis led the way, Hathaway thinking he'd have comprehended more had the conversation been in French or Latin.

They soon found themselves pushing through doors into a room crowded with desks, nearly all occupied. One or two officers glanced up at the newcomers, but then immediately returned to their work. Hathaway looked at Lewis with a single raised eyebrow, and Lewis grimaced. _The renowned Scottish hospitality._

The door opened behind them and Siobhan Clarke entered, bearing a steaming mug of coffee. She stopped short when she saw the Englishmen, and scanned the room once to see if anyone—_anyone_—had bothered to greet their visitors. She frowned at the obvious answer to that enquiry, then broke into a rueful smile.

"James, DI Lewis, Sir, sorry! Welcome to Fettes. Can I get you a cup of anything?"

"I'm fine," Hathaway murmured.

"Please," Lewis said at the same time.

She looked back and forth between them, and gave a short laugh. "Well, get your story straight at least." They grinned at that, some of the stiffness gone. She smiled broadly.

"We saved you an office. Well, a room with a desk, a phone, a computer, and a chair—just one, sorry—and it's buried in files and all. But it's better digs than most of us have." She waved them toward a wall and led them to one specific door. "Here."

When she opened it, they saw she wasn't understating the room's amenities. Barren of any personality and stuffed to bursting with files, the desk, phone, computer, and chair were little more than that. And yet, as Clarke had mentioned, it was more than some others had.

"It'll do," Lewis said. "Anyway, we shouldn't be here long."

The three of them together in the office made for a touch of privacy from the rest that Lewis knew would otherwise be hard to find. "Siobhan . . ."

She cocked her head at his obvious lead-in.

"You and DI Rebus. I understand there's friction being forced between you two." Lewis's words were clearly a statement, not a question.

She sighed, breathing in and out slowly, the way her yoga teacher had instructed.

"They want to drive him out. Want to force him into retiring under the shittiest of conditions." She wrung her hands. "I've learned so much from him! And they treat him like dirt because . . . well, because he's had some problems due to his temper, and because they _can_—He'll put up with _anything_, so long as they let him keep working."

Lewis expected to see her eyes welling up, but they were dry. Angry, more than sad.

Lewis took in a breath, stared at Clarke, and exhaled an equal measure. "I'm sorry." It was all he could say.

She gave a small, tight smile. "Well, he doesn't do himself any favors, does he? Anyway, he'll be here later, so it's for the best that you know how things stand before he gets here."

"We need to interview McManus as soon as we can. I'd rather not have to wait for Rebus, but you're welcome to sit in if you want, doesn't matter to us. Though I don't think our case has anything to do with your case against him."

She shook her head. "Those rooms are small enough as it is, and I have to meet with the Chief Super in ten minutes. You go ahead, I'll have McManus brought up."


	2. Chapter 2

Interview Room 2 was barren, with a hard feel to it that was absent from the IRs in Oxford. McManus was already in the room when Lewis and Hathaway entered, and he looked thoroughly defeated. Through the course of their questioning, the detectives learned that McManus considered himself a dead man, that he wouldn't last long in prison.

"Know too many secrets, don't I?" He sneered. "Some that might be worth an early release. But only if I live that long."

"Secrets about whom?" Hathaway narrowed his eyes.

"My guv'nors, anyone I've ever worked for."

"Then why do you seem so eager to share them?" Lewis leaned back in his chair, as though he was only vaguely interested in the answer.

McManus grew smug. "Because the one most likely to have me topped in the nick happens to be the man who smashed in Bertie Hanson's head with a pint glass. You put him away for murder, and suddenly, he's a nobody. A non-starter."

Lewis looked bored by the whole thing. "If he's such a threat, how can we believe you'll testify truthfully against him?"

McManus snorted. "He's a lot more of a threat running loose, whether I sing or not. I need him locked up."

"Okay, then . . . how can we believe this isn't a stitch-up of someone who wasn't even there that night?"

McManus's face darkened. "What, am I supposed to tell you how to do your job? Show his ugly mug to the other punters there that night. Must be some video, too."

At last Lewis showed some interest in what the man had to say. They questioned him another 35 minutes, during which they extracted the killer's name, the reason they were at the pub that night, the history between them and the victim, and where they went when they slipped out the back of the place. Lewis's eyes snapped sideways to meet Hathaway's. They had what they needed to charge him with accessory.

"We'll probably be seeing you in a few weeks at trial, assuming we can find this bugger. Try to keep alive til then, alright?"

They emerged from the room and headed back to the CID room, stopping on the way for beakers of tea from a machine. Hathaway eyed the muddy liquid suspiciously, but it tasted less awful than it looked.

As they approached their destination, they could hear shouting even before they pushed open the door. The language was choice, indeed, and punctuated with the banging of fists on desks. When there was a pause in the furor, Lewis took a deep breath and entered the fray.

"Afternoon, John, good to see you again."

Rebus, his face red with anger, snapped around, ready to pounce, but he jerked to a halt when he saw who had come in. Then he turned back to the equally angry-looking Clarke. "We are not done with this conversation, Sergeant Clarke," he said, biting the words.

Hathaway could see the inspector willing himself to calm down. And it seemed to be working, his breathing leveled out and his normal color returned.

Lewis approached amiably, as though there was no danger of himself getting a bollocking—or a fist in the face. "Something bothering you, John?"

"Aye, something's bothering me." His voice rose to a near shout. "My colleagues, as it happens, all have their brains up their arses. Didn't think it might be important to sit in on your interview with McManus. Didn't think we still have some gaps in our timeframe, not to mention it might be nice to get to know about some of his other associates."

Siobhan huffed. "You can watch the tape."

"Oh, is that your thoughtful suggestion, Sergeant Clarke? Anyone else want to offer any helpful ideas? Such as how, while I'm watching the tape, if I think of something I want to ask him, some way I want to direct the questioning, I can turn back the clock and do just that?" He held his arms out, as though welcoming his colleagues' input. "Well?" He scanned the room, making eye contact with each detective. "Christ, you all look like cows standing there, stupid expressions on your faces." He dropped resignedly into his desk chair.

But Siobhan wasn't willing to let it go. She approached his desk warily, her mouth set firmly. "John, it's not your investigation. You have a problem with how I'm running things, you tell _me_, don't take it out on _them_."

_Brave lass_, thought Lewis. _And she's right_.

Rebus smiled bitterly. "Is that another of your thoughtful suggestions, Sergeant?"

Hathaway could sense that the impasse they seemed to be reaching could result in another blow-up. He turned to Lewis, speaking low, but loud enough to be heard:

"Do _all_ inspectors call their sergeants by rank when they're angry, or is it just coincidence that you both do it?"

Lewis snorted quietly, and Hathaway saw the corner of Rebus's mouth twitch. Then Rebus faced James squarely, and for just a second, James feared he would be next.

But Rebus merely pulled out a packet of cigarettes. "You still engage in this filthy habit, Sergeant?"

Hathaway smiled broadly, and held out an arm. "Lead the way, Sir. I definitely could use one right about now."

After they had left, Siobhan turned to Robbie. "Sorry about that. I think the Chief Super put me in charge just for the purpose of nettling both me and John. After all those years of him being the boss, it's hard for both of us to change roles. And anyway, I have no authority to order him to do anything." She was shaking her head.

"No problem, I know how it is with John. Anyway, it was a good illustration to James about how leading an investigation isn't all chocolates and flowers. I think he'll be a bit less envious of you after that." He considered a moment. "You must be looking forward to getting your inspectorship and moving on to Life After Rebus." Lewis's tone was kind.

She pursed her lips in thought. "No, not really. I wish things could be as they were. But that's silly, they can't be, not once he retires. And if I don't make preparations now for that, I could be caught cold when it does happen."

Lewis wondered how Hathaway would handle it when he himself stepped down. But they wouldn't be forced into something this awkward. Even if they were, he and Hathaway had mellowed a great deal in the time they'd worked together, almost like an old, married couple. Yes, they had their roles but they both knew the team was what mattered the most. Lose the team, and you lost the case.

Siobhan looked a lot calmer now, her color and breathing had returned to normal. "Are you two going back tonight?"

Lewis shook his head. "Now that we're up here, I'd like to stay over in case I think of any follow-up questions I need to ask. There's no way they'd send us up here twice. And I think James would like to see the city. Know anyone who could show him around?" He grinned.


	3. Chapter 3

Due to Hathaway's dry humor and the effects of the nicotine, Rebus was in an almost happy mood when the two men returned to the office. "I think we're all gasping for a drink, eh?" He turned to Siobhan. "Alright if I buy yours, boss?"

It was his way of apologizing, and she knew it. "You'd better."

Rebus collected his car and they all squeezed in. He drove them into the old part of the city below the castle. The streets here were narrow, cramped by the single line of parked cars, where the street was wide enough to allow for any parking at all. John had to circle around through several streets before he found a gap large enough to squeeze his Saab into. He nudged both the car in front and the car behind but did no damage.

Siobhan shook her head. "You'll never get that out after a drink or two."

He recognized the truth of her words. "We can walk to my flat after, it's not much over a mile. Anyway, I plan to have more than a drink or two, so I won't be driving anyway." He turned to the Englishmen. "C'mon, we're going to Oxford. You'll feel right at home, eh?"

The Oxford Bar was one of Rebus's favorite watering holes. They had parked a few streets away, and had a bit of a walk to get there. As Rebus was leading them in the direction of the pub, a huge, white shape swooped past them with a rumble. It was a car, classic lines sweeping back and down from the front fenders to the doorsills, squared-off nose like the prow of an ocean liner, cutting through the sea of paving stones. The hood ornament was a discrete, winged B.

As one, the group stared. Hathaway gave a low, admiring whistle. Rebus noticed the glance Siobhan shot James, which she followed with a reverent comment:

"Bentley R-type. '53 or '54, I'd say."

Hathaway redirected his gaze and smiled appreciatively at her. Lewis's eyes flicked back and forth, more interested in their interchange than in the car.

"So sleek, yet with all that power." It was clear James was describing the car. _Or was he talking about something else?_ Lewis wondered. Then he heard a sound like steam escaping and realized Rebus was exhaling a hiss through his teeth. The Scot had turned away from the big, white saloon, frowning.

"Makes me uncomfortable, a car like that," he muttered to no one in particular.

Clarke tensed. She knew from experience that Rebus had decided how he wanted to express himself, and it would be at best scathingly derogatory and at worst shockingly offensive.

"'_A car like that_'?" Hathaway repeated. A smile twitched Lewis's lips. He, too, saw an approaching comment that was calculated to force a reaction.

"Aye." John locked eyes with James. "A _car like that_ makes me think of those 'she-males' you sometimes come across in pornography—all sensuous and sleek, all voluptuous curves, big breasts, full lips, rounded hips . . . but underneath, you find she's got a bigger stiffy than you do. It's not something that gives me a rise." His eyes narrowed, watching as James, unable to answer, slowly turned crimson.

Realizing from the extremity of the response that there was background here he was missing, Rebus's face lost its hard edge, and one eyebrow rose quizzically.

"Sergeant, what is it about you I don't know?" His tone implied any number of possibilities.

Hathaway only glared. He was beyond words.

Lewis took a firm hold of John's arm, turned him, and propelled him a couple of yards away.

"Christ, John." He stared at the Scotsman as though willing him to read his mind so Lewis wouldn't have to explain out loud where the very air would hear.

But although Rebus's dark eyes searched the pale blue ones of his colleague, he could not read them any more than he could read tea leaves or knucklebones, and his expression grew helpless. Lewis sighed in exasperation, frustrated at the insensitivity that Rebus tended to bear as both a sword and a shield.

"The lad had a run-in with just such a creature a couple of years back. She killed three people, and the whole time it was clear she was playing with James, teasing him and leaving tantalizing, misleading clues. James got so turned around he made some bad decisions, and he repeatedly deceived me about his involvement in the case. It severely tested the strength of our partnership. And it's not something either of us cares to be reminded about."

Rebus furrowed his brow, absorbing all of this information. "But . . . you caught her?"

"Well, yes, in a way. She attempted to kill him along with herself in a suicidal fire." Lewis fell silent, unwilling to relate the end of the story, when he had played the hero.

Rebus had visibly deflated. He tried to deflect his shame at having been such a prick by using a little humor. "So . . . Hathaway survived?"

Lewis only gave a half-hearted snort in response. Rebus put a hand on Robbie's arm and grimaced, but said nothing. Then he cocked an eyebrow, pressed his mouth into an apologetic smile, gave Robbie's arm a final squeeze, and walked away, turning into a narrow close where he would be enough protected from the ubiquitous wind to get a cigarette lit. Lewis knew this would have to suffice as an apology.


	4. Chapter 4

As soon as Lewis had hauled Rebus away, Siobhan focused on the pavement. She knew an apology was not owing from her, but it took considerable will not to offer one anyway. For years, she'd let Rebus suffer the consequences of his own rudeness, having learned that the more she defended his behavior—much of which was inexcusable anyway—the more she got painted with the same brush as he, and that certainly had not done her any favors where her career was concerned. Nor would she require or even encourage James to explain. It was a simple, typical incident of Rebus being Rebus, with the usual awkward and hurtful results. At last, she turned and smiled tentatively.

"My dad used to take me to classic car shows. I couldn't have cared less about the engines and such, but some of the body lines were nothing less than pure art, in my view." Her eyes crinkled, a little embarrassed. "If you ask me, the big Healeys, Hispano Suizas, and Jaguar XK140s have about the most sensuous shapes ever invented."

Hathaway inhaled deeply, appreciative of her efforts to steer the conversation onto less inflammatory turf. "DI Rebus seemed surprised at your knowledge of motorcars. You've never told him?"

"He wouldn't understand." She smiled ruefully, then paused, considering something. "You know, sometimes I find myself realizing 'I'm thinking exactly how Rebus would think.' But other times . . ." She trailed off.

"Chalk and cheese," James supplied.

She gave a little snort and nodded. "He can be so prickly sometimes."

Rebus and Lewis rejoined them, the former appearing considerably chastened. Hathaway decided to press his advantage—and strike back.

"So, DI Rebus, Sir?" He knew he had the Scotsman's full attention even though eye contact was lacking, and he pressed on. "Why is it you seem to be so familiar with pornography featuring transsexuals?"

Rebus snapped a glare at him. _Don't go there_. But Hathaway continued, despite—or perhaps because of—the glare.

"Or is it pretty much the sordid picture I imagine? Older, single man, not getting much action, ordinary porn doesn't get much of a result any more, wants to check out something a bit exotic, maybe a bit naughtier than the standard fare . . .?"

Lewis stifled a smirk unsuccessfully. Siobhan masked her shock at Hathaway's blunt confrontation of the very private, very quick-to-take-offense, detective inspector. She found she wanted to protect her boss, but for what reason she couldn't fathom.

Rebus exhaled nasally. He knew the more he tried to explain, the more ground he'd lose, and he decided his best course was an admission that lacked credibility.

"Touché, Sergeant. Touché."

They started to walk on, but Clarke pulled him aside after a short way, frowning. "John . . . you actually waste money on that rubbish?"

His expression turned a bit uncomprehending. "Siobhan . . ." he seemed to be struggling to find simple enough terms to explain himself. "I'd have thought you understood me by now." He was shaking his head. "I'm a Scot. The stuff is out there on the Internet for the taking. Of course I don't bloody pay for it." He was smirking so that she couldn't tell if he was embarrassed or was winding her up.

Siobhan found herself powerless to stop from pressing the matter. "But you . . . visit these websites? You use that stuff?"

His snarl shut her down completely. "My personal habits are not open for discussion. Okay?"

It struck her then that the life of Detective Inspector John Rebus might well be desperately lonely. And she was surprised to realize she felt only sadness, not disgust. Unable to find a single word to say in response, she hurried away from him and caught up with James, who was striding along, two paces ahead of Lewis.

"You were a bit rough on him, James." She matched him, stride for stride.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Rough? Just a bit of a wind-up. Wouldn't surprise me to learn he has a stash of dirty magazines under his mattress."

She felt as though she were explaining to a backward schoolboy. "He has . . . you know, normal needs. Like most single men of his age. And not many opportunities to satisfy them." She knew she sounded overly defensive of him, and for all she knew, James's theory might be true, though she seriously doubted it. So she struck back before James had too much time to speculate about what opportunities Rebus _did_ have. "What does Inspector Lewis do, d'you know?"

Hathaway stared at her, aghast. When he found his voice, he only managed, "I most certainly do _not_ know."

She accepted his tone without comment. The walked together in silence a while.

"He's shagging the pathologist, isn't he?" She tried to keep her tone conversational.

Hathaway stopped walking now and stared.

She couldn't decipher his expression. "What?"

"No, he's not." He stared a moment longer. "Would that he was. At least then we'd all know what was what."

She snorted quietly. "No known source of satisfaction for his . . . _needs_, then?"

"Not. One." Hathaway reflected a moment. "I'm not even certain he has that kind of need. It's not something we talk about." He turned to her, the intent to convince her was plain in his expression. "He's the most asexual person I have ever known."

She raised her eyebrows without comment but couldn't help thinking, _And he's been in the seminary!_

"Sorry, let's talk about something else. What did you think about McManus today?" She slid her arm through his as they continued walking along the street. It was a nice evening for a walk, and they were soon deeply involved in their conversation.

A few paces behind, Lewis and Rebus walked in companionable silence. They understood that, as men past the prime of life, their bodies were beginning to betray them in any number of ways that were uncomfortable and awkward to deal with at best, humiliating and medically diagnosable at worst. Lewis didn't care whether Rebus indulged in online porn—didn't believe it, anyway—and didn't care whether bizarre practices or couplings turned him on. Nor did he especially want Rebus to know the terms of the truce Lewis himself had signed with his aging body, accepting a life of complete celibacy in exchange for not being bothered by sexual urgings, which worked most of the time. He was no longer certain he even had that function, it had been so long since he had employed it.

Without speaking—without it even being a topic of conversation between them—they each understood that the other had come to accept that the pleasures of the flesh were rarely freely offered, and were no longer a readily available option. Both men saw their choice as being between commercially provided sexual bliss or nothing at all involving another person. The former not being available on terms they were willing to accept meant the latter was all that was in the offing.

Without saying a word to the sergeants, Rebus unexpectedly steered Lewis off the pavement and into a dark doorway.

"Whisky for the grownups. My round."

Lewis blinked in acceptance and they pushed into the Oxford Bar, finding a small table near a television screen that was broadcasting an obscure documentary on gardening. Rebus muttered something to the barman and eventually returned to the table, bearing two measures of malt, a small jug of water, and two pints of ominously dark beer. He set down the tumblers and dribbled water into each. The whisky clouded a little, then cleared.

Lewis sniffed and wrinkled his entire face. "What is it?" It smelled rather like white-board markers or mosquito-bite remedy.

"Laphroaig," Rebus answered, pronouncing it _La-froyg_. "An Islay malt."

Lewis could not uncurl his lip. "It stinks."

Rebus rewarded him with a wide grin. "Och, aye. To your _nose_, it stinks. That's phenol from the seaweed." Then his face fell, and he was serious. Reverent. "Smell it with your palate. With your whole being." He opened his mouth over his dram, inhaling slowly. "Peat smoke," he informed Lewis. "Take a wee sip, and roll it in your mouth." He demonstrated, sucking in the liquid along with some air, keeping the whisky to the back of his mouth while siphoning in additional air, swallowing, then opening his mouth and inhaling to draw more air across his palate and tongue. His eyes were closed.

Lewis tried it, as Rebus had shown him. He found the acrid smell dissipated and a heavy smokiness filled his nostrils, wrenching him bodily from the mundane and dingy urban pub to the wilds of storm-tossed Islay, where the sea's persistent chill could only be endured with the aid of a smoky peat fire. Sheep bawled in the distance, pounding waves punished the shore, and a sharp, briny wind whipped his breath from his body. A heavy, soaking mist—"_haar_" some ancestral part of Lewis's brain supplied—drenched him through, his hair dripping seawater, his eyes squinting from the sting. Then Lewis swallowed and shivered as the whisky warmed him, returning him to himself and the safety of the bar in Edinburgh.

His eyes snapped up to meet John's, and a slow smile crept across his face.

"Magic," was all he said.

Quiet now and at peace, Rebus's eyes shone. _Lewis had felt the sea_.

But their moment of bonding was severed by the energetic interruption of two detective sergeants, who upon entering scanned the barroom quickly until spotting the men they sought.

Rebus's smile turned rueful. "Welcome back to the mainland," he muttered under his breath, and Lewis understood precisely what he meant.

Siobhan knew that Rebus was responsible for having ducked into the bar without notifying the junior officers, and knew that, accordingly, scolding duty fell to her.

"We turned around and you two had disappeared." But her tone was fairly neutral—were the older men acting in their own interests by trying to give the junior officers the slip _or_ were they trying to force the two sergeants together, give them the chance to be alone together?

"Sorry, Siobhan. I wanted to introduce Robbie to the complicated pleasure of Islay malt." Rebus smiled, and she knew he was being honest. She could always tell.

"Really." Rebus insisted, more for Hathaway's benefit than Clarke's. She glanced up at Lewis, cocking one eyebrow inquiringly. Rebus had tried to introduce her to the same "complicated pleasure" but she had been unable to swallow the vile liquid. "Sheep dip," she'd called it.

"And?" she asked Lewis simply, her tone inviting his confidence.

Lewis's eyes grew wide. "Religious." Almost inaudible.

Clarke snorted. "Bloody Geordie. I should have known. I can't abide the stuff. Not even the smell."

John and Robbie exchanged a knowing look.

Hathaway was intrigued. "May I try?"

Lewis handed him the swallow still clinging to the bottom of his tumbler. "Careful, son. Go slow and keep your mouth open. Don't use your nose." His expression was one of mild amusement.

Hathaway swirled the golden liquid, resisting the temptation to sniff it. The phenol was heavy enough in the air as it was, so he already knew what the stuff's nose was like. Rebus checked Lewis, who nodded an assurance that said, _He'll follow my directions. And he might even understand it; he's seen plenty of bitterness in his short life._

Hathaway suddenly knocked back the malt and Clarke saw Rebus wince, his face crumbling simultaneously. Speed was _not_ the way to make the acquaintance of an Islay malt.

Hathaway was smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a hearty skepticism on his face.

Lewis adopted an expression of ersatz serenity, but shook his head slightly. "You must learn patience, Grasshopper."

They all burst out laughing. But behind the merriment, Lewis's blue eyes caught the Scotsman's dark orbs and expressed his gratitude for the experience. Rebus's eyes warmed in response. _Any time, Sassenach_.

A few hours and numerous pints later, the four found themselves in Rebus's flat, laughing at everything, mid-period Stones blasting on the hi-fi. They were all well past being moderately drunk. Siobhan nestled into James, who had his arm crooked around her. He got the feeling Rebus was watching him for any sign of groping or otherwise inappropriate conduct, but he was on his best behavior, despite the alcohol. Robbie and John were swapping anecdotes—either stories of old cases or stories of past co-workers and bosses. They seemed to find everything pretty hilarious, even when it wasn't that funny to the younger two. And they were spilling almost as much whisky as they were drinking.

Rebus knocked back a short tumbler of Bell's and grinned at Lewis. "So McManus today—what'd you get off him?"

Lewis twisted a smile. "Enough to put away his mate for life." Smugness flowed from him in waves.

"Och, aye? Who's his mate, then?" Rebus's professional interest couldn't wipe the smile from his face.

"Christ, you want me to check m'notes?" Lewis feigned overwork and then fairly exploded with drunken laughter. Seeing Rebus nod expectantly, Lewis pulled his notebook out, flipped through a few pages, and found the answer he sought.

"Morris Gerald Cafferty, also known as 'Big Ger'."

Stunned silence. Siobhan's head snapped around, and she was gaping at Rebus. Rebus himself had lost all color and seemed incapable of breathing as he stared hard—painfully, really—at Lewis. Lewis's eyes clicked from face to face and he felt an immediate urge to explain.

"Well, that's what McManus said. And the mugshots we found of Cafferty matched the eyewitness description of our killer."

Siobhan kept staring at Rebus, but he appeared incapable of responding. _Cafferty! His lifetime nemesis! Cafferty the untouchable—TOUCHED!_

Lewis spoke since no one else seemed able to do so. "Cafferty is known to you? Big?" He received no response. "I need him, John. For murder."

"_No fuck_." Rebus slowly breathed the response. "_Cafferty,_ _nicked for murder_."

Then John came out of his trance, his brain blazing. "If Big Ger's your killer, why didn't forensics pick up his prints on the beer glass? His prints are on file, he's been nicked before."

Lewis thought about this. He frowned, trying to remember the forensics report that Hathaway had handed him when? an eternity ago? No, it was only yesterday.

"Well, the glass he used for a murder weapon broke, and the pieces were covered in blood and beer. And our forensics lab is seriously behind. That's the best I can offer." He looked helplessly at the Scottish inspector.

Hathaway added, "The handle of the glass, Sir, was never recovered."

Rebus stared into space. "Morris Bloody Cafferty." Then his attention snapped to the Englishmen. "You get that fucking bastard for murder, I'll owe you my entire miserable life."

Lewis eyes were searching Rebus's entire face—and Siobhan's—for a clue about why this was so significant. They had all sobered up considerably with the change of mood in the flat.

John turned to Siobhan. "Christ, it's a good thing I _wasn't_ in that interview room. I'd have frightened the living daylights out of McManus."

"See? It all worked out for the best."

He scowled. "That doesn't mean there shouldn't have been _somebody_ in there. What the hell were you thinking, Clarke?"

Lewis rolled his eyes at Hathaway, and tried a diversion. "So what's your history with this Cafferty?"

Rebus exhaled loudly. "Robbie, Big Ger _is_ my history. Understands me better than anyone else does. He moved up through the ranks with me, except I moved up the police ranks—and not very far—while he moved up the criminal ranks until he reached the top. He's touched every important event in my life: my promotion, my divorce, even my daughter's life has been affected by him. I expect he or his minions have injured every bone in my body. I've been drinking with him, dining with him, jogging with him, swimming with him, nearly killed by him half a dozen times. And I can never touch him, not for long. Half the police force in Edinburgh thinks I'm in his pocket, but what I'd like most is to see him dead. Locked up for life would be second best. And throw away the bloody key this time."

Hathaway picked up on the final comment. "Did he get out early last time?"

Siobhan knew the details and filled them in. "He faked having terminal cancer."

James stared, incredulous. "Okay, that's a new one on me." He refilled the empty glasses with whatever was at hand, and swallowed half of his at once.

"Cafferty's not a man to be underestimated." John was scowling. He couldn't shake the feeling that, like nearly all his attempts to destroy Morris Gerald Cafferty, this effort was doomed to failure.

His dour mood affected Lewis, as well. "And first, we have to find him."

Oddly, this comment improved the Scot's demeanor, and he gave an unexpected chuckle.

Siobhan turned to her senior officer. She couldn't help herself. "_Sir?_ What's funny about that?"

He grinned, thoroughly buoyed by now. "What Cafferty loves most is to rub my ample nose in the fact that I can't catch him. If you issue a warrant for his arrest for murder, he'll have to lay low. He'll have to hide. _To go crawling, if he goes about at all_." Given the way he said this last bit, it could have been John's birthday.

Hathaway, who had recognized for some time that they were no longer making progress on either of the cases, raised his glass. "Here's to locking up Big Ger," he said, "and to John Rebus getting to laugh at him for as long as he likes."

John smiled warmly. "You're a good man, James. I wish I could think how to repay you." But as he said it, he thought perhaps he could manage to come up with something.

"I think I'm ready to call it a night. Why don't you and Siobhan doss in my bedroom? Just there . . ." he indicated.

The two younger members of the party looked at each other.

"Go on," Rebus encouraged. "Ye don't have to . . ." he shrugged "_do_ anything. You're probably both too drunk to manage, anyway. Only, I don't think Inspector Lewis fancies sleeping with either of you, and nor do I. So that's it decided, then."

Siobhan cocked her head at James, wondering briefly if Rebus really meant he didn't fancy sleeping with her. And she realized he was probably right, everyone in the flat would be asleep as soon as they achieved the horizontal.


	5. Chapter 5

Lewis woke up with a pounding head. When he finally got himself sorted enough to open his eyes, he didn't recognize where he was. It took several reconnaissance passes over his brain to supply the answer: he was in the spare room in John Rebus's Edinburgh flat. He was mostly undressed, and no unexplained bodily fluids seemed to be present. He'd survived.

His mobile was ringing. Ah, that must be what had roused him. He fumbled for it, eventually finding it on the nightstand, and clicked it on.

"Yeah?" He knew he sounded gravelly, barely awake, hung over, and all that went with it.

"Lewis," the voice was crisp and officious. "What have you found?"

Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent. _Shit_. He tried to make himself sound as sober and awake as he could.

"Ma'am. I'm, erm, . . . I mean, I think we're pretty much done here. We got the ID of the killer, and he's got quite a reputation. Should be heading home as soon as we coordinate with Lothian & Borders how we're going to handle the . . . how we're going to handle this."

"Today, Lewis?"

Lewis had to check the clock to ensure it was morning. Hell, it had been morning before he went to bed. Not that he remembered going to bed.

"Yes, Ma'am, today."

"Lewis?" Her tone was dangerously pointed.

"Ma'am?"

"Are you hung over? You sound terrible."

Lewis had never been good at lying. "Ma'am, I spent the evening in the company of John Rebus. Enough said?"

"I hope you stayed out of the saunas."

"Y'know, he mentioned them, and it made me wonder . . ."

"They're brothels, Lewis. A 'sauna' in Edinburgh is a brothel."

He couldn't reply to whatever she might be implying because she had cut the connection.

He dragged himself vertical and then to his feet. Made it to the door and opened it, peeking out to see what, if anything, was going on.

He could well have been the only person in the flat. Groaning, he pulled on his trousers and a clean shirt from his bag, then ventured out into the hallway and on into the living room. The bedroom door was shut, and he could hear nothing beyond it. Rebus was sprawled on the chair in the living room, a blanket over him, a half-full tumbler of whisky on the floor within his reach. Lewis went over and looked down at him, smiling slightly. The man could be a complete sod, but his heart, when it could be found, was in the right place. He certainly deserved, in Lewis's estimation, to live long enough to see Morris Gerald Cafferty locked away for life. He didn't know why he ruffled Rebus's hair, as though he were a young nephew or something. But that was the kind of affection he felt. And anyway, it was harmless. Rebus slept on.

Two glasses of water and three tablets of paracetamol later, Lewis went out and returned to the flat with fresh milk for coffee and buns for breakfast. He made coffee and had a cup while everyone else slept. He got out the case notes and tried to determine where they might find Cafferty. As he read, he thought about how long Rebus had struggled to bring the man to justice. How long he had fought an unbeatable enemy. It made Robbie think of the period when he did not know who was responsible for Val's death. The impotence he felt because of that. _Is that how John feels?_ He knew it was. He wished he could do something to bring the Scotsman some closure.

* * *

><p>They were heading south, the train clicking through the Midlands, picking up speed and making up for its late start. They had spent what was left of the morning watching Rebus interview McManus—artfully but fruitlessly, as far as they could tell—and then in the afternoon Siobhan had shown them around the city. John had meant to stay behind but declared he needed a drink after working over McManus, and so he'd tagged along with them to lunch and followed after them as they went from landmark to monument to historic building to museum, reminding Lewis of a lost puppy. Their last stop, the Museum of Scotland, had seemed to imbue Rebus with a lighter mood, and there he had reminded Lewis more of an eager schoolboy as he showed them his favorite exhibits, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His familiarity with the museum and his improved state of mind were explained when a curator approached them, a rather lovely woman not much older than Hathaway, and she had greeted John with a hug and a quick kiss, as well as an offer of dinner so she could tell him all about her trip to the States. John had introduced her to the Englishmen and reminded her of Siobhan's name, it having been some time since the women last met during an investigation.<p>

Now Lewis was staring out the train window, not seeing the scenery and instead thinking about how happy Rebus had seemed when they at last parted at Waverley Station. Lewis didn't share that happiness, not after thinking for most of the trip about the case.

"Tea, Sir?" Hathaway sat down and pulled out the tray table, a carrier with two plastic beakers of tea in his hand. Without enthusiasm, Lewis's eyes slid over to his sergeant and then back to the window.

"Ta." Lifeless.

"Sir?" Lewis didn't so much as flinch. "_Sir?_" Now he looked up, slowly.

"I heard you the first time."

Hathaway studied him. "A penny for them."

This drew Lewis's eyes to meet his directly. Another mile clicked by before he spoke.

"We're going to fail at this, James. DI Rebus knows his man, and he knows Cafferty has gone to ground, unlikely to be brought to justice. We'll get McManus for his role in this, if he's not killed in prison, and that's the most satisfaction we're likely to get." He narrowed his eyes, piercing James's. "I know I'm right about this."

Hathaway sipped his tea in silence. The trip hadn't been a total loss, and his enjoyment of it kept him optimistic. They had Sterling McManus's confession, for one thing. And they had the name of Bertie Hanson's killer. Rebus was right: Cafferty could do little now that wouldn't draw attention to himself, so that was another benefit. Finally, he'd had the chance to renew his friendship with Siobhan Clarke. Not as intimately as he suspected Rebus thought; he respected her and wasn't going to push things until he was sure how she felt. And as near as he could tell, she didn't know herself how she felt, so there was no rush. Still, they'd shared a bit of a snog before falling asleep in each other's arms, and that had been nice.

No, the trip hadn't been a total loss at all. He smiled.


End file.
